It's grown late, I think—I hadn't noticed...
Perhaps you're terribly busy now!
I'm almost glad you show no pity.
It was never written in my fate—
today, for the last time, I become yours.
Touch is impossible.
The senses that feel are themselves afflicted.
Through beloved melodies drifts
a colorless emptiness.
I know none of this matters, really.
I didn't remember you to say something,
to fulfill some need...
I never sought you out,
and yet why do tears fall
from these eyes, waiting for you?
Even now I cannot fathom it.
I came not to tell you these things,
never once did I say 'stay'—
I made no plea at all.
# It Was Never Said The words stayed locked inside, never found their way to your ear— the things I wanted to tell you in the morning light, in the silence between heartbeats. I carried them like stones in my pocket, smooth from touching, heavy with what they meant. You passed by, humming something, and I let them fall one by one into the dark well of my chest. They say some words have their own gravity, pull everything toward them— but these orbited inside me instead, burning like distant stars you'll never know existed. If I had spoken, perhaps the world would have tilted differently. Perhaps you would have turned, and in that turning, everything would have changed. But silence has its own language too, and I became fluent in it— the art of swallowing, the grammar of absence, the poetry of what remains unfinished. So here they are, still warm from my throat, still shaped by words I never said, a whole constellation no one will ever map.
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